


Still As A Statue

by Gem_Alawas



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bi John Egbert, By Definition at Least, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay Dave Strider, Gay Panic, I'm flying by the seat of my pants so I add as I go, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, John and Rose are Friends, M/M, Magic, May include other POVs in future, Meddling with time, Mentioned Bigotry, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of homophobia, Mild Horror, Night Terrors, Nightmares, POV John Egbert, POV Second Person, Past Child Abuse, Psychological Torture, Sort Of, Soul Mate AU, Tags May Change, Tall John Egbert, Time Travel, Trapped in a Statue, but if it makes you uncomfortable don't read this, is it age difference if one was a statue? I don't think so, not really - Freeform, sort of slowburn, statue, very gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 20:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21203528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Alawas/pseuds/Gem_Alawas
Summary: You, John Egbert, hear of a legend. The legend of a boy turned into a statue, standing in the center of Leeds, England. They say that when his soul mate touches his hand, he will turn back into a living person to be with them. It's an enduring tradition to try, to take his hand and see if it happens. You're in Leeds, your friends know, and they pester you into doing it. You know you're not gay, so nothing's going to happen, right?Right?





	1. The Truth of a Rumor

Money doesn’t buy happiness, you know that – but it can buy you things that make you happy, or at least give you a break from the things bringing you down. For you, John Egbert, one of the several heirs to the truly vast Betty Crocker empire – which contains many companies, governmental links, and a truly vast fortune – it is currently buying you a rather lengthy tour of Europe, from famous cities to little hamlets and all in between. You’ll probably never actually need to work a day in your life, as among the younger members of your family you alone aren’t truly interested in advancing the extensive family business. Your sister Jane and your cousins Jade and Jake all want to go into it for one reason or another, but you’re more interested in doing something like opening your own little joke shop, going into the arts, or remaining in school for a good long while. For an eighteen-year-old boy supported fully by his almost-too-rich family, these are all rather easy dreams to achieve. But despite your extensive freedom, you can’t help but feel all too alone.

Your family is utterly absorbed in the line of business, and you alone aren’t. Jane manages corporate and the baking arm of the empire, Jade heads the tech sector, and Jake is the public face and advertiser of the company. You don’t really have many friends who aren’t related to you, and all the friends you do have – as well as much of your family – you know online, too far away to easily meet in person, and you haven’t met any of them more than a few times. That loneliness, that outcast feeling of just simply being uninterested in what your family is so invested in – a feeling you can’t help but have despite their ever-enduring, unconditional support of you – that uncertainty of not knowing exactly what you do want for yourself and your future: those have conspired to drive you to some pretty dark places. They’re part of why you are where you are, an almost comically out-of-place, quarter-Polynesian, six-foot-one, muscular kid walking the currently sunny streets of Leeds – a peaceful and sprawling city in the middle of England. Traveling is a fun distraction, a way to do something that isn’t staying at home and moping, a chance at meeting new and interesting people, and a good opportunity to learn interesting things. It’s a way for you to function, at least for a while.

While you’ve enjoyed this trip across Europe quite a lot, it’s in its final couple days – and you admit that you’ll be happy to be home once it’s done. Europe has been a lot of fun, but you sort of miss home and quiet and rest. In your final days abroad, you’ve decided to basically do a bit of research and do whatever’s escaped you in your week in Leeds. It’s probably not much, the city is very calm and quiet for its surprisingly sprawling size – a welcome thing after the constant excitement of your near-month in the bustling city of London. You’re headed off to do something Jake mentioned to you that he remembered from one of his cheesier movies and everyone who’s heard of it is telling you to do – a little old tradition for everyone who passes through this city. In one small plaza near the center of the city, there’s a beautiful statue of a young man standing and holding out his hand, affectionately nicknamed “the patient boy”. As the old rumor goes, the patient boy was once a living person until he was trapped in stone. Supposedly, when he touches hands with his soul mate, he will be freed from the statue to live a normal and happy life with that person.

Out of respect for the rumor, that little plaza has been left largely untouched, as if not to disturb the person supposedly sleeping within stone there. Of course, that old legend has become the source of books, movies, and tradition – everyone who goes makes a point of touching the patient boy’s hand, regardless of their gender and even their age, though from pictures you’ve seen the boy the statue is of looks close to your age. Rose egged you into doing it when you mentioned the legend to her, and you promised you’d take a little video of yourself going up and touching the patient boy’s hand, though of course only as a joke. You don’t have anything against gay people, but you’re just not interested in guys, no matter what Rose constantly hints at you over some of your interactions with her cousin Dirk. Not your fault the guy is so good at getting people to say highly gay things and then pointing them out and also being totally in cahoots with Rose. You don’t think much of the legend, but you do acknowledge that it’s pretty cool all things considered.

You soon enough arrive at the plaza in question, all high, enclosing walls and muted colors, not particularly busy; and it seems like the kind of place that never is, like much of the rest of the city. Isolated at the very center, almost seeming like the plaza itself was built around it, is the statue of the patient boy himself. Even you, staunchly straight as you are, must admit that the patient boy really is beautiful. A perfect stone replica of a seemingly idealized boy standing there, staring ahead as though waiting for a certain someone to walk up, all sharp angles and aesthetic curves. But something about him unsettles you. Maybe it’s the eerie lifelike quality to him, or the way he seems utterly untouched by time in comparison to everything else in the area, or the eerie way that despite his realism he almost doesn’t look human, or the way that the plaza almost seems to have been built around him like a temple of some sort. Maybe it’s the look on his face, one you’ve seen in the mirror enough times to recognize – the look of a person masking a turmoil of emotions. Or maybe it’s that he’s so lifelike, so spoken of as simply a trapped person, that you suddenly realize you’ve rather unconsciously been referring to the piece of carved stone as a him rather than an it – and it seems wrong not to.

A bit slowly, you walk up to him – only barely noticing the eyes on you, like everyone is watching to see if anything will happen. But you still notice them, if mostly as a sharp chill down your spine as you meet the carved stone eyes while you approach. The silence that has fallen over the area and the sudden seriousness bother you, so you pull out your phone and message Rose.

> \-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] \--  
EB: hey rose, am i a bit too early for new york?  
TT: Hello John, not at all. How is your time in Leeds going?  
EB: good! i’m going to do that silly thing you and jade and jake keep being on me about.  
TT: “Silly thing”? Would you be referring to honoring the time-honored and noble area tradition of touching the statue’s hand?  
EB: yeah. but it’s still silly.  
EB: and “the patient boy” is…pretty but kind of creepy.  
EB: and not like that rose i can pretty much see you typing some thing about me calling a statue of a guy pretty!  
EB: i’m not a homosexual, he’s just a nicely made statue.  
TT: Actually, I wasn’t going to say anything of the like. I was going to ask you to elaborate on the factor of “the patient boy” being creepy.  
TT: But thank you for the clipboard filler nonetheless.  
EB: dammit!  
EB: but anyways look at him, he’s less creepy in a picture but i think you’ll get the idea.  
EB: http://tinyurl.com/prettybutkindacreepy  
TT: I can see why you called it a him. That is…rather uncannily lifelike. I can see why people would assume it is a frozen person rather than a statue.  
EB: yeah…  
EB: it’s a pretty cool legend though.  
EB: aaaaaaaanyways, i’m going to go do it!  
TT: I suppose you still occasionally use that old quirk of Vriska’s?  
EB: yep!  
TT: Anyways, I wish you luck. And while I personally believe the old legend is quite a load of shit, I await proof that you did indeed follow through.  
EB: me too and thanks! video incoming soon like i said i would.  
\-- ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] -–

Talking to Rose sort of reassured you. Nothing crazy is going to happen, you’re going to touch this statue’s hand and say something silly to give your friend of six years a good eye-roll and go on with your day, rumor-based obligation fulfilled. But the expression on his face, as you take a position next to his pedestal, still gives you a bit of the chills. You don’t know how he was made quite so expertly, but you feel like you’re looking at a real person – one caught, frozen, in the midst of a storm of suppressed emotion that you can almost feel when you look at him this close. You pull out your phone, position it, and start recording with a grin, trying to ignore the vaguely unsettled feeling you have – one similar to what you have when you stand next to a really upset person. You wave your free hand.

You say as the recording starts,  
"Hey Rose, check this out! I’m doing the rumor thing just like you said, and watch – absolutely nothing gay is going to happen! There’s nothing to even go wr-"  
You place your hand on that of the patient boy, and suddenly you’re cut off by things going wrong. Things happen so fast that they only register on you one by one, like some bullet-pointed list of Rose’s. First, you feel the texture under your hand change, even as the stone – not stone, but giving like a person’s hand if oddly cold – actually closes around yours. You’re mid-yelp-and-turn when your mind catches up to your eyes. You quite suddenly realize that you saw the patient boy move in the video just as you tore your eyes away even as your gaze lands on something far paler and in motion than the gray stone of not five seconds before. Your hand is abruptly free of the grip that had taken it not a full second earlier and almost simultaneously, before you even have a chance to pick up on the sudden and utter shocked silence from around you, you’re holding up a pale boy who’s abruptly fallen against and mostly on you. The last thing you notice in that two-second space before you realize what just happened is that pedestal you can suddenly see now that he’s slumped limply against you is empty.

You stand there, arms awkwardly around him where you threw them as the suddenly-there boy fell to catch him, seeing the people staring in utter dumbfounded shock from the part of the plaza that’s in your view. The boy you’re holding hasn’t moved, you can’t feel him breathing and for a moment you wonder if somehow you ended up holding a dead body – and then you feel a shudder wrack his whole form in sync with a harsh gasp right next to your ear. Half-seconds pass like small eternities as he grabs hold of your shirt, his whole body shaking while his legs seemingly refuse to support his weight and he collapses against you, forcing you to support his surprisingly slight weight. His breaths are weak and ragged, and each that passes sounds closer to a sob until he’s crying, nearly silent and hoarse but definitely crying, clinging to you with a weak but desperate grip, his face buried in the crook of your neck where it meets your shoulder.

You have absolutely no idea what to do about this. There’s a crying boy holding you like a lifeline, people are staring at you which is never not awkward, the pedestal is empty – oh. Oh shit. The actual reason you’re here and this is happening skids back into your brain all of a sudden. The legend, could it – is it true? Is he – are you-? But, rather than freaking out, your first course of action is to slowly crouch to the ground since the boy can’t seem to stand on his own, helpful instincts sort of taking over when rational thought takes an abrupt vacation. You try to get him to let up his weak grip on your shirt and sit but he makes a sound like a kicked puppy and holds you tighter – nope, you’re not moving him any time soon. Partly because it seems like it would be hard to get him off you, but mostly because he’s so upset that you just don’t have the heart to pry him off or tell him to let go. Glancing around at the wide-eyed people offers you nothing. The building panic inside your head you ignore – this just isn’t the time, not in public with – who is he? Is he really the patient boy? Did you really just fulfill an ancient legend in the least heterosexual way possible?

You force it all out of your mind for the moment. This boy is crying, he can’t even stand on his own, he’s still holding you like if he lets go, he’ll be left all alone – those are the things you need to focus on first. You gently sort of pat his back, not pushing him away as he shivers and quietly sobs and tries in vain to hug you closer. You don’t really understand what’s going on or why, but you ignore that and start whispering to him. Someone being upset and needing comfort is something you can understand, something you can handle.  
"Hey, it’s okay, just relax a little, it’s okay…" you whisper.  
After about a minute of meaningless reassurances and him crying, he finally says something you can understand.  
"…Pl-…please-" he mutters, his voice hoarse and rough, having to stop to cough a bit before he can even manage that one word.

You nod, even though you don’t know what he’s asking for or if you’re agreeing to something or what the fuck is going on in general, but it relaxes him at least a little bit. He shifts his hands to your shoulders and finally pulls away slightly, looking at you with an expression you can’t really read as he sits on the pedestal where the statue that was apparently him all along stood until moments earlier. He’s pale, his skin almost pure paper white. His hair is sort of fluffy, messy, and the color of fresh snow – but most shocking are his eyes. They’re red, deep and bloody, a color you didn’t think was possible even on a person with albinism, which you sort of suspect he is. No, not quite. He looks more like the popular stereotype of albinism than a real person with it, with his crimson eyes and his pure white skin – save for the pale pink scars you can see cris-crossing his arms and across his face, all over what of him isn’t covered by his simple grey-brown shirt and pants.

He has a slight figure, much shorter than your six-foot-one and almost frail – you could probably pick him up like he weighs nothing, you’re pretty strong when you need to be. Overall, he looks almost inhuman, with his lean features and the weird way they’re built, almost like some fairy thing of the distant past brought here – and yet his face is still wet with tears, he’s still crying, and his hands still shake where he’s holding your upper arms. It’s hard to describe the expression on his face, but it twists at your heart anyways – joy, hope, relief, fear, anguish, pain, all balled up into one like he doesn’t even know how to start expressing what’s going through his head. He looks just like the statue, at least as much as a person can. Oddly, that shakes you out of just sort of staring, enough to process what the fuck just happened.

The pedestal, as a glance confirms for yet another time, is very much empty and remains so. The boy, identical to the statue that had been there moments earlier, is sitting in front of and holding you tightly. The plaza is almost empty, but you can see the last few people pretty much running the hell away as if to give the two of you a bit of privacy. And that’s when you abruptly recall the legend in full, how it states that only the boy’s soul mate can set him free with a touch. The person he is destined to love, by most interpretations be loved by in return, and that must be you. But you’re not a homosexual, you’re absolutely settled in that fact – and you don’t want to hurt him either, like you think you will if you don’t end up loving him given the circumstances. Heartbreak is nasty, and you can only imagine how it would be for someone literally meant to love a specific person. Add his probable isolation given his stint as a statue to that and you don’t even know how he’d react to rejection but it probably wouldn’t be good and you wouldn’t blame him.

You’re kind of…freaking out. You don’t even know what to say or what to do, he’s still holding you and crying a little which doesn’t help. The fact that he’s crying harder, shaking hard, leaning into you, sort of simplifies it a bit. For a second you think he’s going for a kiss and you’re about to basically scramble back when he’s suddenly resting his head on your shoulder, arms gently around your shoulders as he cries on you. You decide that a plaza probably isn’t the best place for this – or in public at all. And you should probably text Rose and tell her what happened. You gently take his shoulders and try to get him to look at you, which he does.  
"Um… are you okay?" You manage awkwardly.  
He gets halfway through nodding and then shakes his head, coughing.  
"Do you…want to go someplace? Like to sit or get some water or something?" You ask.

He nods to all those questions but still holds on to you and sobs, shaking and trying to curl into you, when you try to get up. He tries to speak but just about all that happens is a few stammered syllables and coughing. You sigh softly, hugging him gently and trying to comfort him.  
"It’s okay. I’ll help you," you say softly, managing to help him to his feet.  
But even this doesn’t really help because his legs just give out and he yelps and clutches at you before coughing violently and shuddering, his slight weight leaned entirely on you but still barely able to manage being upright. You don’t think it’s a strength thing though – he just seems to be having trouble managing his limbs, like he’s not used to using them anymore. You manage a few slow steps with him still holding you, steps he can barely manage taking even though he’s quite clearly trying and frustrated. But it seems like it’ll take forever to get to your hotel if he’s able to make it at all in this state. So, you cut to the chase, stoop down a bit, and scoop him up bridal style.

He’s cool, almost cold to the touch – which explains some of the shaking, actually, you think. He makes a weird strangled yelp of a noise and clutches at your shoulders but relaxes once you’re comfortably holding him and standing upright, softly leaning his head on your shoulder and closing his teary red eyes. You slowly start walking, holding him close to you. You really have no idea why he’s so upset and shaky aside from how cold he is, why the actual hell you’re the one who was able to set him free, but you’re taking this one slow step at a time. For now, that means calming him down, getting some water in him, and getting him able to speak and walk. You’ll figure it out from there. Step one of that, at least to the best of your ability to figure out this insane situation, is getting him back to your hotel room – as weird as that is out of context, or at least as weird as it would be if you were gay which you know you aren’t.

It takes only about fifteen minutes to get back, but you feel eyes on you for most of the walk. Which makes sense, you guess. Even for those who didn’t see or haven’t put together what’s going on, someone who looks like the boy you’re carrying is a rare sight, as is a teenaged boy casually just carrying another through the streets. You don’t actually know if there’s anyone else who naturally looks quite like him in real life, the only places you’ve seen skin and hair and eyes quite that color involve edited photos or makeup, hair dye, and colored contacts. He holds on to you without moving or even opening his eyes the whole time, limp to the point where you’d think he’s asleep if not for the fact that he’s still holding you weakly.

Carrying the boy through the lobby attracts some attention, including a confused and slightly innuendo-esque comment from the receptionist. The boy flinches hard at that, hiding his face against you and shaking, you’re even pretty sure he’s started crying again. You don’t answer the poor puzzled receptionist and hurry into an elevator, hugging him and whispering mindless, meaningless reassurances. He doesn’t relax again until you’ve awkwardly finagled opening the door to your hotel room and walking in. You bring him to the one bed in the small, cozy, soft-toned hotel room and try once again to set him down and let go. As you’ve come to expect, he clings to you, though his grip strength is practically nil, even weaker than it was before. You don’t think much of rubbing the back of his shoulders and hugging him briefly – you’re naturally pretty affectionate towards everyone.

"Hey, it’s okay, if you’re scared that I’m going to leave I won’t, just relax a little, sleep a little maybe, I’m going to get you some water," you whisper.  
The boy sort of surprises you with a little nod, releasing your shoulders and curling up in a little ball on the bed. You awkwardly pat his arm and carefully pull back the blankets, pulling them over him. He seems to need to calm down a little and warm up, and you’re grateful when he pulls the blankets around himself and relaxes a little. He seems to be having trouble adjusting to being free again – or something, you don’t really know what’s up, mostly because he has only managed exactly one coherent word. Thankfully, when you offer him a water bottle, he doesn’t have much trouble opening it and drinks quite a bit. Less thankfully, he almost immediately falls into a deep sleep, meaning you’ll have to wait to actually talk to him.

You sort of awkwardly stand there, looming over his sleeping form, not having any idea what you’re supposed to do. You feel a bit bad for him, he woke up crying and scared and probably in a place he didn’t recognize because he’s been asleep for a long time, at least as far as you know. You’re confused and unsure – you’re not a homosexual, you’re not, but he’s apparently your soul mate. Or at least, you’re his, you don’t know if it’s supposed to go both ways. You both hope for his sake it does, and you’re scared for your worldview that it might be. You have a million different thoughts going through your head, but you have to wait on all the questions you want to ask and things you need to figure out with him. For now, he’s sleeping softly, and you don’t intend to wake him. He looks peaceful, sleeping – you know it won’t last forever, but you’ll enjoy the moments of calm while they last.


	2. Reveal, Reassess, React

You sit on the couch for a bit, realizing that you have no idea what you’re supposed to do now. The obvious answer is to wait for your unexpected guest to wake up and make sure you’re there when he is. He freaked out enough when you tried to physically set him down and the last thing you want to do is to make it worse, but that still leaves an important question. What the fuck do you do then? You don’t know where to even start aside from asking him for his name so you don’t have to continue awkwardly thinking of him as the patient boy – but a signature chime from your phone reminds you that you know a few people who generally have more of a clue than you do, and one in particular who always at least gives good advice. You should probably talk to Rose in particular anyways to update her like you promised you would, and also to your family given how strange things have gotten. Getting another plane ticket, or even a private plane if you have to given that he doesn’t have a passport, won’t be that difficult for you given your family wealth - but you know you can’t spring stuff like this on them with no warning. At least you have proof in the form of the video you took for Rose, and since you’re thinking of her, you pull up Pesterchum to see what she’s sent you.  


\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB]\--

  


> TT: John, it’s been a while since you messaged me from the plaza where the statue is.  
TT: It has been long enough that I assume that the lack of your promised video means one of three things.  
TT: One, you have decided against going through with this rather pervasive, lasting tradition and declined to deliver the news, likely out of embarrassment.  
TT: Two, nothing has happened and despite your words to the contrary, you are inexplicably disappointed and have chosen to gloss over it entirely out of worry that I catch on and expose the inherent homosexuality of that reaction; despite the fact that it could just be a simple, innocuous feeling of wishing something happened because of how objectively cool it would have been.  
TT: Three, this legend that we both agreed is interesting nonsense is in fact true, you were the one to release the patient boy from his prison, and you are currently freaking out or dealing with the inevitable and messy complications of something like that happening.  
TT: Though, as objectively cool as it would be, I am well aware that it is not the third option.  
EB: hey rose, i got a little busy.  
EB: i can’t really explain what happened without sounding totally insane so i’ll just send you the video, but yeah i’m freaking out a bit.  
EB: http://tinyurl.com/sothishappened  
TT: …oh my.  
TT: It appears that the most fanciful of my predictions is in fact the truth.  
TT: The legend passed by word of mouth and through generations was never a fallacy after all.  
EB: rose…  
TT: The patient boy was truly a person locked within stone by means lost to us now, awaiting his freedom for untold years, maybe centuries or even millennia.  
EB: rose.  
TT: And you were the one he was waiting for all this time, the one to set him free at long last into a world he presumably knows nothing about, having slept for a time only he knows until you found him.  
EB: rose!  
EB: i know this is cool and all and you’re probably all over your clipboard but i don’t think i have time for a whole spiel on that specific thing right now.  
EB: he might wake up soon and like i said this is pretty crazy.  
TT: Pardon my distraction, I promise you have my full attention here. Well, you do now at least, I apologize for getting carried away thinking about the whole idea.  
TT: Though it’s hardly every day that an enduring legend is proven true, magic is revealed to be real rather than bullshit, and one’s ‘not a homosexual’ friend abruptly has a supposed soul mate who is male.  
EB: okay yeah, it’s pretty exciting when you put it that way.  
EB: or it would be if i wasn’t really stressed out or something i don’t even know how i’m feeling right now so i know the how does this make you feel line is usually good but please don’t go that way this time.  
EB: rose, i’m not a homosexual and he’s supposed to be my soul mate or something?  
EB: he’s sleeping here in my hotel room and i don’t have any idea what i’m supposed to do now!  
EB: I don’t know his name or what he knows about this or if he’s okay or anything about what’s going on except for some old legend that i barely bothered with…  
EB: where do i even start?  
EB: rose i’m not going to lie i’m kind of losing my shit over here, i don’t even know how long the statue has been there!  
EB: i don’t have any idea what’s going on!  
TT: Slow down a bit, John. Panicking will only make things that much worse, I trust you remember the techniques I showed you for calming yourself?  
TT: Aide from that, asking him when he wakes up is probably a good place to begin.  
TT: That is, asking him for his name, what he needs if anything, and if, as you put it, he’s okay.  
EB: thanks rose.  
EB: yeah i remember, hold on a second, or don’t and i’ll just answer when i’m done.  


You set your phone down for a moment and take deep breaths, idly tapping at the side of your own hand below your pinky finger. It’s an oddly calming motion, coupled with the deep breaths as you count the seconds on the inhales and exhales, and combined the two things settle you down somewhat. You’re too lazy to go about tapping the other pressure-point spots you remember, but just a few deep breaths and taps calm you down well enough. Dirk had been taught this stuff when he was in therapy, passed it on to Rose because he thought she would be interested to know, and then Rose taught you and the rest of your friend group, thinking that it might help with calming down when someone’s upset or scared. You’re not sure if it’s real or only works because you expect it to, but either way it’s helpful. When you’re calm enough to continue the conversation without panicking, you pick your phone back up and read Rose’s next reply.

> TT: Feeling better?  
EB: yeah, thank you.  
TT: Asking him questions and being honest about your current feelings on the matter can only help - at least, assuming you can communicate with him without too much difficulty.  
EB: uh…why wouldn’t i be able to?  
TT: Think about it.  
TT: You don’t know what language he speaks.  
TT: He might speak an older form of English that may as well be another language, another language that you don’t speak, or a dead language or dialect that we’d be even less able to translate.  
TT: He may also still be too…compromised to really speak, as he seemingly was when he first awoke.  
EB: shit.  
EB: i didn’t really think of any of that.  
EB: i hope i can talk to him, i already don’t know what i’m doing and if i can’t even talk to him this’ll be even worse.  
EB: he did say one thing and he kind of seemed like he understood me, so that’s good at least.  
TT: That does sound like a good sign, if he can understand you - even if he can’t respond for all we know, that’s better than nothing.  
TT: Also, try to keep in mind that he’s probably terribly disoriented. I know you’re nervous but he probably is too.  
TT: We don’t even know how long he’s been trapped or how much he understands about his own situation.  
EB: you’re right.  
EB: this is just…  
EB: a lot.  
EB: i guess i’m going to need to teach him about the present?  
TT: That’s more than likely. How is he now?  
EB: sleeping.  
EB: he’s so still…  
EB: it almost looks like he’s dead and it’s kind of freaky.  
EB: i can’t even tell if he’s breathing from here.  
TT: Maybe you should go check on him then, there’s truly no telling what however long he spent in that statue may have done to him physically - or, for that matter, mentally.  
TT: And I’m certain that the last thing either of you need is for him to actually stop breathing, so I’ll let you go.  
TT: Goodbye, John. Talk to you later.  
EB: bye rose. i’ll talk to you later.  


  


\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] \--

  
Vaguely unnerved by the thought of the boy’s death, you get up and walk over to the bed where the former statue is still sleeping. At least, you hope he’s sleeping. He’s still as stone, he hasn’t moved a bit since he laid down – even standing close to him, you almost can’t tell if he’s breathing or not. You gently place your hand on his arm to feel for movement, to feel for warmth – and his red eyes fly wide as his entire body twitches like he went to curl into a ball and abruptly decided not to. You’re not quite as surprised as you should be by the fact that a couple tears trace their way down his face when he looks up at you, or by the fact that his expression is nearly impossible to read. There’s so much joy there, and so much anguish – you don’t know how to parse it. So, all you do is sit by him, unsure what else to do. He sits up and leans on you, his head on your shoulder – for a moment hesitant but settling there and crying softly on you when you don’t pull away. You genuinely feel bad for the boy, and you kind of wish you could just know why he’s so upset. When you’re this close and not freaking out, you notice what seem to be dust and stains on his skin and clothes, probably because statues aren’t necessarily sanitary - as well as a smattering of pale brown freckles on his arms and face.  


You really don’t know why he’s reacting so strongly to things or why he’s holding on to your arm almost tightly enough to hurt, but you do your best to comfort him anyways. It takes a few minutes of awkward shoulder pats with the hand farther from him and quiet sobs before he seems to relax, like he’s gotten out whatever was in his system. After just seeing his expressions, you almost don’t want to know what he’s feeling, what he’s been through, or how much responsibility is suddenly on your shoulders. You’re suddenly in charge of this mysterious person, probably his only link to the present day, possibly his one chance at being really happy – and that’s aside from the responsibilities of teaching him what he’s missed and quite possibly figuratively putting him back together, as Rose pointed out. Given the connection you two share and his situation, you assume those things will be your job. You also don’t know what kind of shape he’s in mentally or physically but, judging by his actions and expressions so far, it can’t be good.  


“Are you okay?” You ask in a whisper, turning your head to look at the snowy white hair that’s the closest thing to his face that you can currently see.  
He nods slowly against your shoulder.  
“Y-yeah…sorry,” he whispers, still hoarse.  
“It’s alright,” you reply, though you’re not really certain why he’s apologizing.  


You’re happy to hear him speak though – it means he understands you and he can talk to you. You carefully shift to offer him more water, which he accepts and drinks some of. You put the bottle down and turn back to him, this time putting your arm around his shoulders instead of leaving it awkwardly pinned between the two of you. He shifts closer to you, almost robotically looping his arms around your waist like he has no idea how a hug works. It’s awkward as all hell, you’re not a homosexual and you barely restrain yourself from saying so, but all you’re doing is trying to comfort him so it’s okay. That thought makes it easier to stay as you are, letting him lean against you. A long moment passes, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s just fallen back asleep where he is - which you wouldn’t blame him for, given his general condition. Then he abruptly speaks up.  
“How long?” He asks, his voice still hoarse but not as hoarse or shaky as it was before.  


“I don’t know,” you reply, partly because you’re not sure what he’s asking about.  
He coughs softly, clearing his throat, and then tries again.  
“What year is it?” He asks, this time his question clear.  
You realize that he’s trying to figure out how long he was trapped. You’re curious too, you want to know just how long ago he was cut off from the world. Fifty years? Seventy, maybe even a hundred? The thought of being cut off from the world, suddenly awakening a hundred years later, freaks you out. You really hope it hasn’t been that long.  
“It’s 2020,” you answer quietly, turning your head more to look at him as best as you can.  
There’s a moment of anticipatory silence as he seems to process that before he speaks.  
“R-really? 2020?” He asks, a worrying tremble in his tone.  


You nod and he clutches at you, shoulders and hands shaking a little like he’s fighting to hold it together. Confused, you shift and pull him into a better position to see him, your arms looped around him under his, both hands on the backs of his shoulders and half facing him as he clings to you, his face pressed into the crook of your neck. You were trying to look at his face, but he’s too close and you don’t want to make him move. He’s not crying, but he still seems almost painfully upset, his breaths hitching and ragged like he’s just barely pushing back tears. You let him hold you and keep your hands where they are as you wait for him to calm down, guessing that he’s upset to learn just how long he’s been trapped.  


You can only imagine how terrifying it must be to suddenly wake up in a different time, away from everything and everyone you knew. In a way, as overwhelming as the situation is for you, you’re glad for his sake that the conditions of his release meant he’d be guaranteed to have somebody there for him. It’s probably hard enough with someone who has his back – facing it alone would be even worse. You’re not a homosexual, but you’re hardly going to cast aside somebody who needs you, especially somebody with such a mountain of things ahead of him to face. You are jolted from your thoughts by his voice, speaking in a muffled whisper that you can’t actually make out.  


“Um…I can’t understand you,” you whisper, patting his shoulder.  
He pulls away enough to sort-of look at you, still awkwardly close as he takes hold of your upper arms. He doesn’t quite look you in the eyes, save for brief glances with his startlingly red ones, instead focusing on anything and everything else in his field of view.  
“It’s been…”  
There’s another brief pause as he seems to struggle with how to say what he’s thinking, or maybe figuring something out.  
“…f-five hundred and fifty y-years,” he finally forces out like the words themselves hurt him, and it stuns you into silence for a moment.  


You’re almost in disbelief. You don’t know what you expected, but more than five hundred years…wasn’t it. It’s more time than you can easily grasp, far farther back than the great-grandfather’s birth you were first going to use as a benchmark when you thought it would be less than a hundred. You almost can’t register it, even if it is less than one of the options Rose presented you with earlier.  
“That long?” You ask, horror nearly making your voice break like his is, and he nods.  
“Five hundred and fifty-two,” he mumbles, dropping his gaze from yours to stare to the side and at the bed instead, “Since…1468.”  


The task ahead of you suddenly seems even larger than you originally thought it was. It’s not a matter of someone who’s lost even a few generations of time, but – holy shit, he’s older than the country you live in. The United States was founded in 1776, and he was in the statue long before that. Holy shit. This is a much bigger thing than you thought, and you weren’t ready for all this as it was – but, dammit. You’re not going to push him off on somebody else like he’s just a problem to be solved. He’s a living person and soul mate or not, gay which you aren’t or not, you’re definitely the only living person he knows. You won’t abandon him, even if you might not be the best person to handle this. You’ll try, at least, to help him.  


“That’s…a long time,” you whisper, looping one arm a little more comfortably around him and patting his back.  
It’s an obvious statement, but trying to process the sheer amount of time he’s lost has you unable to think of anything better. He nods, hands shaky as he grips your arms almost tightly enough to hurt again.  
“I-I lost count after maybe two hundred y-years – I didn’t think it was this long, I couldn’t tell, it-it was too hard to keep track,” he blurts out, shutting his eyes as his face twists into an expression of almost-physical pain.  


You have to pause, mindlessly trying to calm him as you process the fact that he was, at least for two hundred years or so, aware enough to keep track of time. That’s frankly a horrifying thought, one that only makes the span of time he was trapped in the statue sound that much worse than it already did. You don’t want to know or even imagine what those years must have been like for him. You figure he was only awake enough to know time was passing, but it’s still horrible to imagine being trapped, knowing more than two hundred years has gone by, losing track in the sheer span of it, not knowing when or maybe even if you’ll be freed, into a world that you know you won’t recognize. He curls close to you, moving his arms to wrap them around you again, shifting his head to gently press his forehead into the crook of your neck. You fidget a little – you’re usually really comfortable with physical affection regardless of who you’re being affectionate with but this is way more awkward than you care to admit given the circumstances.  


You’re not a homosexual, not even slightly, and telling him that is going to be awkward. But you force yourself to believe that that can wait, that nothing is going to happen, and you know he really just needs this comfort right now. You assure yourself that he won’t fall for you fast, that’s not how this will work, you’ll be able to explain, things will be okay, and he’ll just fall for somebody else – you’re sure of it. Maybe too sure. But to be okay with this right now, you have to be. A stifled noise from the boy forcefully yanks you from your inward spiral. Now isn’t the time for dramatic introspection, but it is the time for figuring out how the fuck you’re supposed to handle all this instead of agonizing about how ridiculous it is. You do what you usually do with serious emotions and push it to the side to deal with at an unspecified later that even you know will either be never or when you’re forced to.  


“Are you feeling okay?” You ask quietly, shifting to look at and talk to him properly instead of having him cling to you like a scared koala.  
He shakes his head slowly, tears welling in his eyes again, an overwhelmed expression on his face like he too is genuinely struggling to process the length of time for which he was trapped. Fuck, you really don’t have any idea what you’re doing but you try anyways, carding your fingers through his hair and mumbling more soothing nonsense until he visibly settles. He leans his head into your hand, cheek pressed against your palm, eyes shut, and you’re tempted to yank your hand away because of the look on his face like you’re the only thing that helps with whatever is going on with him and he’s apparently supposed to fall for you and you’re not a homosexual and this is way too much for you to handle right at the moment without over-thinking it which you need to not do because he needs you to have your head in the game. But you don’t, you force yourself not to because this seems like it’s actually helping him, and instead you let him lean into you and gently cup his cheek with your hand. For his sake, you hope it helps. It’s not like you have any better ideas.  


Something abruptly occurs to you. Instead of silently wondering what’s going on with him, you should impersonate a sensible human being for a minute and actually ask. You decide to start with his time in the statue, it seems like a reasonable enough question to begin with - and maybe it’ll soothe some of your worries over how bad of a shape he might be in.  
“Hey um…in that statue, what was it like?” You ask, looking at him curiously.  
He frowns softly, glancing down at his hand where it rests on your shoulder. He takes a deep breath or two before he speaks, like he’s trying to pull himself together. You figure whatever he’s about to say really isn’t pleasant, and you know that’s probably an understatement.  
“I…I was awake. Fully. The entire time, I mean, I slept sometimes but…it was really hard because I couldn’t close my eyes or anything - and the nightmares were really fucking hard to deal with. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even blink, and everyone forgot I was ever even alive except as some stupid little myth,” he mumbles, voice heavy and low with emotion but flatter than before, like he’s lost the energy to even cry.  


You sort of blank on that for a moment, trying to process the enormity of the idea. That explains a lot if you really think about it – and is far worse than anything that you feared it might be. For a moment, you’re frozen, having no idea what you’re supposed to say to something like that. Awake, trapped, unable to so much as move or speak for five hundred and fifty years, slowly being forgotten? You can’t – and frankly don’t want to – imagine what that must have been like. You don’t think you could withstand an hour of that without breaking somehow, and he lasted for more time than the United States by an amount that makes your home country seem young in comparison. He moves a hand to your wrist when you shift, holding your hand against his cheek. You can’t blame him, honestly. To go so long without any real physical contact with another person, or for that matter to go without any human interaction at all, can’t have been good for his mental health. You both are lucky that he at least seems sane and stable. You don’t think your sanity could take that level of torment for a couple months, let alone more than half a century, and for the amount of time that he was trapped – there’s just no way.  


“T-that’s…that’s horrible,” you answer quietly, trying to express everything you’re thinking just with inflection and probably failing and he just nods, letting his unusual eyes fall shut as he presses your hand more firmly against his face.  
You surprise yourself and probably him, judging by the way he briefly stiffens, with the gentle hug you give him with the arm that’s not pressing a hand to his cheek but, after a moment of awkwardly moving his free arm like he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with it, he just relaxes and slumps against you. You know enough to know he needs it. You end up pulling him almost into your lap, which is awkward for a number of reasons, but it does get him to release your wrist and just awkwardly loop both his arms around you. He finally seems decently relaxed, enough that you don’t feel bad for moving your hand from his face and just hugging him properly. A few moments pass before the silence clicks over from pleasant to uncomfortable, and you find yourself speaking.  


“So…what’s your name?” You ask in a low voice since you’re still so close, remembering that after all of the vaguely awkward emotional conversation you’ve been having, you still don’t know.  
At first, the only response you get is a weak chuckle. But after a brief moment, he sits up a bit to look at you, letting go of you in the process as you let go of him, a wan but surprisingly genuine smile on his face. The two of you are still almost uncomfortably close, but frankly you’re willing to ignore that given that he’s definitely leaning on you a bit and almost definitely really needs this.  
“Dave, technically David but that’s not nearly as cool,” he replies.  


You fail to restrain a soft laugh at how…normal his name is to you. Given the sheer gap of eras between when the two of you were given your names, you hadn’t expected his name to be so common for the present day. You guess some things haven’t changed much.  
“Well it’s nice to meet you Dave – and my name’s John. It’s not short for anything though,” you answer.  
He nods with a soft, less forced laugh of his own.  
“It’s nice to meet you dude. Kind of cool that your name wasn’t uncommon in my time either,” he says.  
“Some things don’t change I guess, your name is pretty common these days too,” you comment.  
Dave laughs a little, but the expression on his face gives away maybe a little more emotion than you think he meant to. Slightly sad, maybe a little overwhelmed still. He nods.  


“Yeah, but I’ll bet a lot more has changed than hasn’t. Even language is so damn different, it changed slowly but I was in there for so long that it’s totally different,” he replies, tone a bit bleak.  
You give him your best sympathetic look.  
“You’re probably right. I mean I didn’t pay much attention in history class but I’ll bet things are way different now than they were back then. And…I guess you must have kept up with it by listening to people?” you ask, and get another nod.  
“Yeah, I did, and probably, I mean. Even on the way here I think I saw some things I didn’t recognize and I could barely see,” he comments with a halfhearted shrug.  
“I’ll bet you would have. You didn’t see anything outside of your line of sight in that plaza for so long…”  


Your voice trails off and you just pat his upper arm. You still can’t wrap your mind around what that must have been like, and you’re grateful for that. It’s kind of intimidating; to think about how much he doesn’t know. He nods again, frowning softly and not answering.  
“How did you do it?” You ask softly,  
“I mean - how did you stay sane, stay…I can’t think of a better word than stable, for so long? I don’t think I would’ve lasted long at all, what you went through sounds like hell,” you add when you see confusion take his expression.  


Dave sighs softly and looks at you. You’re not sure when you’ll stop being surprised by how red his eyes are, but you haven’t yet. You wonder what fluke of genetics could have made him – red eyes, pure white hair, and being so pale all aren’t characteristics you’ve ever seen anyone naturally have. Even Rose, who’s albino, doesn’t look like Dave does unless she puts a lot of effort in - which she sometimes does, just because she enjoys it.  


“I won’t lie, it really was hell, or maybe worse - not sure if I would’ve preferred eternal fire to that statue. I mean I’d just say burn me but I don’t know how bad that is, for all I know I’d just regret making the rash call in the end though I’m not really sure how shit gets worse…and I’m not sure. Maybe there was a safeguard or some shit, something to keep me from completely losing my shit. It would make sense for them to put that on, a madman probably can’t have a soulmate and it also sucked a lot worse than it probably would’ve if I’d lost my mind. Pretty sure they meant for me to end up with a girl to ‘show me the error of my sinful choices’ or some shit but at least that particular fuck-you from the past didn’t work out,” he admits in a quiet voice.  


You can’t help but frown some more at him.  
“Who’s ‘them’?” You ask, worried as to who the fuck would do something as horrible as what was done to Dave to someone else on purpose, sort of skating over everything else he said because that’s your main worry - and you don’t know if you or he can sincerely handle digging into everything else as things stand.  
“Oh, y’know…my parents, most authorities, the church, the people around me in my time…” He trails off with a shrug, like it’s either not important or he just doesn’t want to talk about it.  
You decide you probably shouldn’t push it, not while he’s still almost definitely shaken up and upset from his imprisonment. You gently put a hand on his arm, which he leans into seemingly without noticing.  


“…Why? And do you think they kept you in there that long on purpose?” You ask softly, worried and hoping the answer is no.  
“Yeah, probably. It was supposed to be a punishment, after all,” he answers with another shrug.  
You can almost feel him pushing back on your attempts to understand what happened to him, but you’re not going to call him on it. You don’t want to rush things, even though you’re desperately curious about what he went through.  
“A punishment? For what?” You ask despite knowing you’re pushing him maybe more than you should.  


You almost don’t want to know, it would be horrible if it was done for no reason but having a reason might almost be worse, whether the reason is at all deserving of punishment or not. Though frankly, you don’t think anything he could have done would have justified what was done to him. Even if it wasn’t meant to leave him awake and alone, or for so long, both of which you doubt given what he said - it’s just not right, really no matter what. Despite that, you can’t help the pretty irrational spark of worry that he might have done something really and truly horrible to be confined like that. You would laugh at the idea of being the apparent soul mate to a murderer or something, but only hours earlier you also would’ve laughed at the idea that the universe would pair you up with a guy no matter who that guy was. You don’t think being with a guy is a bad thing, they just both seem insane to you.  


Dave looks away, focusing on the fairly nice sheets instead of your concerned expression.  
“A few things. Being a freak-“ he gestures to himself, his pale skin, his white hair, his red eyes, and abruptly you’re a hell of a lot more concerned about where the scars you can see on his face and arms may have come from, “-not being a good enough kid, liking guys and not girls…” he trails off to glance at you with blatant concern in his expression, like he’s half-expecting you to react the way people in his past did.  


You can’t help the frown that comes to your face, or your immediate reaction.  
“That’s stupid,” you blurt out, much to his apparent surprise despite the fact that it genuinely sounds insane to you.  
“So you look a little different and you’re not straight and you got shut up in a statue for hundreds of years? For stuff you couldn’t even change if you had to and shouldn’t have had to?” You ask, just to confirm how ridiculous this is.  
He frowns and nods slowly.  
“I guess so. Can’t say I thought of it that way. Maybe attitudes have changed since I was, uh, not stuck, but back then people got burned alive or tortured or just killed for that shit. I guess they wanted to make an example of me, nobody usually resorted to magic for people like me. Either that or I did more than I thought I did,” he answers with a shrug, looking down.  


You lean in and gently hug him again for a moment, which he leans into every bit as awkwardly as he returned your hug earlier. But given he’s dealt with five hundred years of isolation, you can’t blame him for not knowing what the fuck he’s doing.  
“I really don’t think you deserved that. Or anyone did. Being not straight or different or not good at certain things aren’t crimes, Dave, they’re not bad things either. And never should have been, or even seen that way,” you mumble.  
He’s silent for a long moment, just leaning into you and holding on to your shirt. Then he pulls back a little, frowning softly.  
“…I’m guessing attitudes around that kind of stuff have changed?” He asks, almost pointedly not really answering you - but you’re not going to push him on this.  


“Yeah. They have. There are a lot of problems still but…not like that, not here at least,” you answer.  
He nods slowly.  
“Alright. Uh. Mind if we change the subject?” He asks, voice almost shaky again, and you nod, figuring this is just a bit overwhelming for him.  
“Yeah, that’s alright. What do you want to do?” You ask, figuring you should let him decide since you really don’t know what he’s up for.  
“Uh…in the statue I could only sort of feel hunger but it’s kind of coming back and it’s…actually really uncomfortable, I don’t remember how long it had been since I ate anything when I got locked up but it was at least a full day and that’s not that much even for me but. I dunno,” he rambles quietly, fidgeting with his fingers a bit and seemingly just giving up before he can get around to asking to get something to eat.  


You nod, deciding not to question his discomfort - or at least, you guess that’s what it is - with actually just saying what he wants outright for the moment. You don’t mind and you remind yourself that he’s probably kind of fucked up from everything that happened or must have happened to him. Trying to figure out how to help him cope with what Rose would probably sum up as a towering pile of deep-seated issues and a metric shit ton of trauma can wait until you’ve at least got the basic needs and at least some understanding of the time he’s in covered. The last thing you want to do is rush it and make things worse.  


“Alright. Want to go out or get room service?” You ask, sort of leaning towards room service because you’ve had a hell of a day and you know it’s worse for him, but you see his expression change and know exactly what he’s going to say before he says it.  
“What’s room service?” He asks, to absolutely no surprise from you.  
“There’s a kitchen downstairs, people make the food down there and bring it up for us,” you explain, and he nods.  
“That…sounds pretty good honestly,” he answers, fidgeting with his fingers a bit.  


“I assume you can read alright?” You ask, grabbing the room service menu from the bedside table and handing it to him, and he nods again as he takes it.  
“Yeah, I mean language has shifted so I’m not totally sure but I should be okay,” he answers.  
“That’s good. Ask me if you need help?” You reply as he scans the menu, his brows furrowing a bit.  
“I can read it somewhat, I just don’t recognize all of these things,” he states after a moment, looking over at you.  
You nod slowly.  
“Want help?” You ask, and he nods.  


You scoot over to Dave and look over the options with him, helping him pick something with the help of finding out that he really likes apples and the idea of breadsticks, and pick something for yourself. You pick up the phone and call it in, noticing how confused he looks and genuinely feeling bad because there’s so much he doesn’t know. You give him a ‘wait a second’ gesture as you talk so you can get this done fast. Once you hang up, he immediately asks,  
“What was that?”  
“It’s a phone, basically I talk into it and the person on the other end can hear and the other way around,” you explain with a small smile at his genuinely impressed expression.  
“That’s pretty damn cool. How does it work?” He asks, sitting up straighter to look more closely at the simple landline.  


You aren’t any kind of tech expert, and frankly you have no idea.  
“I uh…don’t know. I could look it up though,” you offer.  
“Oh, damn. Wait, what’s looking something up mean?” He replies, and you stifle a groan because there’s just so much he missed - you’re not exasperated so much as resigned to the fact that this is going to be hard on both of you - probably harder for him though.  
“Okay, uh…there’s a lot you missed. Like…a lot a lot. How about we go over a bunch of stuff after we eat or something? Because this is gonna take a while,” you suggest, and he nods while looking about as intimidated by the idea as you feel.  


“Yeah, it’s…a lot, I’ll bet. Maybe it’s even better to take it slow I dunno, I mean it is a lot really, but yeah that sounds like a good idea,” he answers softly, balling the sheets up in his fist as he clenches it and dropping his gaze again.  
You offer him a hand in the effort to reassure him and give him a bit of the totally non-homosexual, platonic contact you know he needs. You’ll worry about the whole homosexual thing another time.  


“Just relax for now Dave. We’ll figure it out, one thing at a time, it might take a while but it’ll be alright,” you promise softly, doing your best to sound more confident than you feel.  
He smiles softly at you and nods, slipping his hand into yours and lacing his fingers with your own. You’re worried about him, really, but you decide to try and take your own advice - and take the fact that he’s smiling as a good sign. One step at a time, you will make this work. Even though you’re not gay, you know there has to be a reason you of all people are bonded to him - if anyone can help him, if anyone can make him happy even without romance involved despite the whole soul mate thing, it’s probably you.


End file.
